


Nothing You Ever Do

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: - Sherlock, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mycroft cares, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock Apologizes, Stressed Mycroft, caring Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6832789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so Mycroft may well be composed, confident and the whole British government, but that has to be a stressful life, especially with having to keep an eye on that brother of his. Could I have a fill with Mycroft just wanting a hug/cuddle after a hard day’s work running the world, preferably Mycroft/Lestrade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing You Ever Do

Nothing You Ever Do

 

Mycroft trudged up the steps to the front of their apartment. His bloody baby brother was ridiculous, getting into stupidly dangerous situations… if John hadn’t have been there it would surely have been the end for his little brother. Instead, the sod was completely unharmed.

As he opened the door, he heard his favourite CD playing in the living room. Somehow Greg had managed to beat him home despite the whole Sherlock fiasco.

“I get that your little brother was a shit today, so I've made us some tea.”

Mycroft dropped his briefcase on the bottom of the stairs and ditched his jacket on the hook. As he walked into the kitchen Greg hadn't cooked at all.

“Alright, so I got us a take away. That's not so bad, right?”

The government official collapsed into a kitchen chair and rested his head on the table. He felt too tired to answer.

“If I'm not cooking, I have more time to do this,” Greg said as he began to massage Mycroft's shoulders.

The government official groaned. “God, what a day.”

“Has Anthea sorted everything?”

“Yes. When did she become so resourceful?”

“When she started working for you all those years ago. How old was she? 20?”

“Mm. 19. A very capable 19.” He sighed as his shoulders began to unknot.

“You should do something special for her one day. Maybe give her a holiday longer than 3 days.”

“But I need her!”

The DI chuckled. “I know, Babe. Now coffee or beer?”

Mycroft exhaled long and hard. “Beer. Lord help me, I want beer.”

Greg nodded. He placed two plates beside each other on the table and then two bottles. He threw the bottle opener from the drawer, which Mycroft usually caught. Except he was too tired to realise what the younger man had done and it just clattered to the floor.

“Bloody hell.” The DI walked over and picked up the opener. “You're even more knackered than I thought.” He opened his boyfriend's beer for him. “The way you look, I'm threatening to draw you a bubble bath.”

“Hmm,” his head leant forward and head butted the table.

“Why does he feel the need to…”

“Be a jerk?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know, babe, but he's damned good at it. I just wish it didn't get to you so much.” He hugged Mycroft's shoulders. “Come on, sit up and eat.”

He lamely hit out at him.

“Noooo,” he moaned.

“Why not?”

“Hungry,” he complained

Greg rolled his eyes. “That makes about as much sense as some of the things your brother says. Sit up and I'll feed you, then.”

“Nooooo,” he complained again. “Bed.”

“You need to eat, babe.”

“Boring.”

“Oh, Lord, not you, too.” Greg put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Keep this up and I'll have to ask John for tips on the feeding and caring of toddler Holmeses.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft head butted the table again and again. The DI wrapped his hands around his head and held him tight.

“Ok, ok, babe. Go sit on the sofa.”

Mycroft got up, went into the living room and collapsed. Greg scraped the food onto one plate and grabbed it along with the beers and a fork. He sat next to his boyfriend. “Open up.”

Mycroft just let the DI feed him.

“Num num num.”

Greg laughed. “That'a boy.”

“You know, Gregory, governmental crises, I can handle. Co-workers trying to stab me in the back, I shrug it off. But Sherlock.” He brought a shaky hand to his forehead. “At least I have you and John to help me look after him, now.”

“Trust me on this, Myc, Sherlock will be paying for it.”

“I know. But it never stops him.” He grabbed another mouthful of food as he contemplated it.

Greg also contemplated it as he finished feeding Mycroft. He decided to send a text to John at the first opportunity. That should do the trick.

Mycroft dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “No more, Gregory. I just want to rest and forget the day.”

He grabbed Mycroft's hand and tugged him to the stairs.

“Bath, little boy.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled.

Greg drew a bath, but it wasn't a bubble bath. He poured in a generous amount of sandalwood scented bath salts. “In you go.” He turned around and saw that his boyfriend was still fully clothed.

“Wow, you're in a pointless mood today aren't you?”

“Hmm. When your brother is an intolerable twat, you can be how you want.”

Greg hadn't realised quite how hard this had hit him, now he knew.

He moved over and started taking off Mycroft's clothes, one ridiculous, but appealing layer at a time. At several points, Greg had to remind certain parts of his anatomy that this way about caregiving, not that.

“There, you go, babe. Now get in and try to relax. If not for you, then for me.”

“Hmm,” he murmured absently. He climbed in and sunk down to the side.

What Greg wasn't expecting was the hand that had latched onto his jacket and pulled him in, still in his suit.

“Myc,” the DI complained. “My suit.”

“Mm hm.” Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg. “Don't care. Need you.”

He chuckled nervously and slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders, throwing it over the edge.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

The DI kissed him on the nose, then rested his head against his shoulder. “I think what you do is amazing, Babe. You do so much.”

“And he's just a prat.”

“But you don't love him any less.”

“He just makes everything such hard work.”

Somehow the DI managed to pull the older man up and onto his lap, despite being in the bath.

He kissed along the back of Mycroft's neck and shoulders. They weren't sensual kisses, but soft, soothing kisses. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Good.”

He brought his head back to rest against his shoulder and nuzzled into him for a while.

Soon enough, Mycroft fell asleep. His soft snores made Greg chuckle. He hated to wake his boyfriend, but the water was already cooling and he was certain they were both pruning up spectacularly.

They didn't even bother washing, having both showered that morning… together and the fact the DI was still in a soaking suit. He jostled Mycroft awake and encouraged him up and out.

Greg decided it would be easiest just to dry his boyfriend off himself rather than try to get him to do it. He held up Mycroft's dressing gown, foregoing pyjamas. He figured he'd just tuck the government official in as he was.

Mycroft seemed to be floating in a world of his own. His own little bubble.

Greg led him to their bedroom and pulled back the covers for him.

“In you get, then, Mycie.”

The British Government climbed into bed, and Greg got in beside him. Pulling the covers over him both, he smiled and patted Mycroft's shoulder when the other man wrapped himself around him. “Night, babe.”

Despite how tired he was, Mycroft couldn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Greg hadn't reacted about his suit quite like the older man had expected. Finally, he blurted out, “I don't understand.”

The DI, more than halfway asleep, clawed his way back to wakefulness. “Understand what?”

“I ruined your suit...”

Greg's eyes flickered open. “So?” He asked, dazedly.

“And you're not mad…”

“It was just a suit. You're more important to me.” He was awake enough to grin now. “Besides, it just gives you an excuse to buy me one of those ridiculously expensive ones you're always on about.”

“I'll buy you 100 if you get into the bath fully clothed with me every night.”

“Deal,” he whispered.

When morning rolled around Mycroft did not want to get up.

He was a dead weight on top of Greg. The most that could be got out of the government official were vague grunts and inarticulate umphs.

“Babe, we really need to get up and get dressed.”

“No, we don't. It's Saturday.”

“Trust me, we do.”

“It's 08:30! Let's sleep.”

“We've got some visitors coming over at 10 so we had best get up.”

“Noooo,” Mycroft complained, so unlike his public persona. “I don't want to. Tell whoever it is we're dead and they can go away.”

“Nope. Wouldn't work.” Greg kissed the top of Mycroft's head. “I'm getting up.” He heaved his boyfriend off of him and did just that.

“When did you become such a spoilt sport, Gregory?”

“When you couldn't deduce something as simple as who is coming over in an hour or so.”

“Don't wanna deduce. Wanna stay in bed with you.”

This time, Greg burst out laughing. “Someday, I'm going to record you when you're being all pitiful like that. No one would believe the things you say.”

“For your eyes only.”

Greg smirked. “You're so out of it you wouldn't even realise you were being recorded.” He huffed. “Now get your naked arse up.”

When Mycroft didn't show a sign of moving, the DI grabbed the covers and pulled them off the bed.

Mycroft glared at him. “You're not just a spoil sport, you're an evil mastermind.”

“Up, Mycie, now. You are like looking after a toddler.”

“No…” he moaned.

“Fine. Stay there. But it will be more than a little embarrassing when Sherlock gets here.”

Mycroft sat up instantly. “What! Why is he coming here? After yesterday, I might just strangle him. I know I will if he does anything stupid on the way over.” After that outburst he fell backwards on the bed.

“You may be pleasantly surprised.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Rolling his eyes, the DI turned on his heel and walked from the room.

After getting ready for the day, Greg made coffee and toast. He also fried up a couple of eggs. He was pleasantly surprised when Mycroft appeared. It hadn't taken as long as he had expected.

“He'll be an arse,” Mycroft insisted. “You know he will.”

“John will be with him.”

“He'll still be an arse.”

“No suit today, Mycie?”

The government official actually poked his tongue out.

Mycroft had felt oddly defiant. He had pulled on a pair of Greg's jeans and one of his T-shirts. He didn't bother with socks or shoes. It felt good being surrounded by his boyfriend's clothes.

“Such a child…”

“No! It's my brother that's the child! My baby brother! The brother that thinks any old thing that is remotely life threatening will ease the boredom!”

Greg walked over until he could wrap his arms around Mycroft and hug him. The hug went on ridiculously long.

“Um, Gregory? You can let go now.”

“Not until I hug the frustration out.”

Greg actually didn't let go until there was a knock on the door and then he moved to answer it.

John shoved Sherlock into his brother's apartment hard, nearly enough to make him trip.

The doctor waved at both Greg and Mycroft, taking the government official's attire in his stride. “Good morning. I've brought someone who wants to apologise.”

Sherlock was looking extremely sorry for himself. His expression actually made Mycroft want to laugh. He didn't though. “Quite right too, you little shit bag.”

Sherlock just dropped his head at his brother's tone.

Mycroft walked over to the younger Holmes. “Don't ask me about my blood pressure. Don't tell me I look uptight. Just don't be yourself for 15 minutes. Let me pretend that you're not going to get yourself killed before the day is out.” He threw himself down into a chair and crossed his arms.

Sherlock glanced at John, having still not spoken since they'd arrived.

“Sit down,” John ordered.

The detective shuffled into the sitting room and collapsed opposite his brother.

The doctor followed Greg through to the kitchen, noticing they hadn't eaten yet. “Oh, we got here a bit early, I guess.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, mate.”

“No, Mycroft was being a bit... Sherlocky, no offence. He was all pouty and needy. Couldn't get him to eat. Barely got him to dress.”

“Is that why he looks like you?” John asked.

Greg chuckled. “Truth be told, I haven't quite figured that out. He made his first appearance of the day in the nude and it wasn't in a play to be sexy. So, I don't know.”

“Sherlock does that sometimes. It's almost as if he's so tired the Holmes part of him disappears and he's some normal man.”

They turned at the same time to look into the living room where Sherlock's head was hanging even lower. The detective looked, dare they think it? Contrite.

Mycroft was ranting. Putting his points about Sherlock's safely across. The detective wasn't responding verbally, just nodding or shaking his head.

John chuckled. “How about a coffee? This could take a while.”

The DI nodded readily enough and they both turned back towards the centre of the kitchen. They jerked around again at a loud thud, fully expecting to see one of the brothers on the floor.

It wasn't a Holmes, though, it was Mycroft's foot stool. It had been thrown across the room.

“Mycie, I'm sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft froze, foot still in the air. “What did you say?”

His brother stood and stepped closer to him. “I said I was sorry, Myc.”

John and Greg paused at the door, watching.

The government official just stared for a while and Sherlock gave up. He turned to walk away.

His brother rushed over to him and took him in his arms. “You've never said that before.”

“I've never meant it before.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock glanced at John, not willing to expand upon their conversation the night before.

“Because he never understood why you do the things you do before. Right, 'Lock?” John prodded, joining them.

The detective gave a nod.

“Go ahead, tell him.” John crossed his arms.

“It isn't about control... It's because you care.” Sherlock looked up shyly through his fringe.

Mycroft turned on John.

“And how exactly did you get this into his thick skull?”

Sherlock flinched at that, not sure what to do or where to look.

“Baby photos. A stuffed toy and an old pirate hat.” John looked rather pleased with himself. “Apparently there were some memories my stubborn git of a boyfriend had locked away in his Mind Palace. He didn't want to deal with them. Sentiment.”

“I don't want to deal with them at all,” the detective amended immediately.

“Tough shit,” John added.

“Don't you see-” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“Don't give me that caring is not an advantage line,” John said, causing the older Holmes to look a bit guilty. “If you lock your feelings for your brother away, maybe you'll do the same thing with your feelings for me. You can't live like that. Neither can we.”

“'Lock,” Mycroft interceded, “When I told you that all those years ago, I was wrong. Caring is an advantage. It's what makes life worthwhile.”

“Then what was the point of life before we met these two then?” Sherlock grumbled. “I managed 29 years alone.”

“And you weren't happy.” Greg crossed his arms, daring his friend to say otherwise.

“I survived.”

“You were an ass,” Greg argued.

“I still am!” Sherlock spat back. He was seriously contemplating terminating this conversation and bolting.

Mycroft sank into a nearby chair and rested his face in his shaking hands. Maybe it was time to give up. There was a tightness in his chest and he felt as though he couldn't breathe. He couldn't... breathe... Couldn't...

“John!” Sherlock shouted, greatly shaken. “Mycroft's having a heart attack!”

The doctor flew across the room, suddenly even more concerned.

Greg, however, moved John gently out of the way. “Panic attack. He gets them, sometimes after Sherlock...” He took Mycroft's hands. “Just breathe for me, Myc. Like we practice.”

Sherlock stood at the side frozen, he was breathing heavily and couldn't look at any of the other three men.

This wasn't Mycroft's fault… this was his… John had explained it all yesterday… what was he still doing here?

He took off out the front door. He ran and ran, not caring that he left angry people in his wake as he shoved his way through the crowd. He just wanted to find a place to hide and let the world pass him by, because he couldn't fix what he had done.

When Mycroft had recovered, he realised his brother was gone.

“Greg…”

“He ran, Myc.”

“I know… we need to find him.”

“It could be a danger night,” John clarified for the DI. “He needs to learn to deal with this sort of thing.”

“But he's… he doesn't know how.”

Greg laced his fingers behind his neck, applying pressure and stretching tense muscles. “So we find him.”

Mycroft, still shaky, nodded. “Bring me my government laptop.” Once he had it, he pulled up a program and started clicking through surveillance footage leading from the apartment in the last several minutes.

“It's fine, John, he's just gone home.”

The doctor sighed. “Alright, well I'll head back home. You guys don't worry, I think he understands now, he's just trying to put it straight in his head.”

When John got home, Sherlock was packing up his stuff, cramming his expensive suits into a suitcase.

“What the actual fuck?” asked a disbelieving John. “You can't be running away.”

“No! I'm not!” Sherlock shouted. “I'm taking myself out of the equation. Without me here, Mycroft won't have to worry about me anymore. He can forget I exist. It will be better for all of you.”

John walked forward and collapsed in a chair beside their bed.

“You complete and utter twat.”

Sherlock didn't pause his packing, he was used to those sorts of comments anyway, it was nothing new now.

“If you do this, Mycroft will never stop worrying. Never. Neither will I nor Greg. Bloody hell. I'll have to quit my job at the clinic until I find you.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We fucking love you. Get that through your head.”

“Why? Why? Why?!” He walked through to the sitting room and before John had a chance to follow, reappeared with his violin and the skull from the mantle. He shoved both into the suitcase as well, surprising himself that they actually fit. “I'm not loveable. Everyone hates me.” He whirled around and glared at John. “I hate me.”

The doctor stood and grabbed Sherlock by the arms. He looked at him very seriously. “That's what this is really all about.” John kissed him. “You're not allowed to hate you. No one is allowed to hate the man I love.”

“I don't understand! Why does Mycroft care? Why do you? Donovan has it right, she and Anderson are the only ones that do. Compromise? What if I hand myself into the police? Just walk straight into the Yard. This worrying bollocks won't matter, then, will it?”

“Try this for a fucking compromise!” John shoved him back on the bed and sat on him. “We'll stay right here until you get this ridiculous notion out of your head. And if you try to get away, I'll call Mrs. Hudson so she can tell you she loves you too!”

Sherlock struggled, but it was for show. And John knew it.

“Why though?”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“What good have I ever done you? I stapled your phone bill to the ceiling just to judge your reaction compared to your bank statement. What fucking good is that to anyone?”

John laughed. “The phone bill, not so much. The saving my life when I came back from Afghanistan and curing my limp, that was wonderful, just like you.”

“But Mycroft… Greg… Mrs. Hudson? Why? What have I ever done for any of them?”

“You're Mycroft's little brother.”

“You can't choose family and he clearly didn't. I am so different to him… to my parents!”

“And Greg and Mrs. Hudson just do. Remember throwing the CIA agent out the window? Mrs. Hudson was delighted. And you've even pulled Greg out of the Thames a time or two. But you know what, there doesn't have to be a reason, you arse. Get used to the idea.”

Sherlock went limp and looked over at the bedroom door where his brother and Greg were standing.

“He's right, 'Lock,” Mycroft said quietly. “And nothing you ever do will make us stop caring.”


End file.
